


Call An Optimist

by DailyDaves



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DailyDaves/pseuds/DailyDaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A diagnosis changes Gavin’s life and takes him into a downward spiral of not being able to face the fact that he’s going to die, complete with anger, frustration, and troubled relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call An Optimist

**Author's Note:**

> After some good response to it, I finally decided to publish this. I should mention that this is going to turn out rather dark. Relationships will include eventual Gavin/Michael with a lot of focus on Gavin’s relationships with other people (Geoff, Griffon, Ray, Joel, Burnie, etc.) and how they’ll change. I’d love to hear story reactions and whatnot, since this is my first adventure into fanfiction for this fandom. posted on tumblr here http://gavirn.tumblr.com/post/55632679788/call-an-optimist-part-1-6-words-6-000-summary !

Neoplasm.

Malignant.

Glioblastoma multiforme.

The words were nothing but incomprehensible jargon to him, but even through the medical terms that Michael couldn't even _hope_ to understand, he had enough sense to understand the point that the sheet he held conveyed. He didn't need a medical dictionary or a pompous bullshit doctor to tell him. Death. This one paper summed up his friend in a matter of variables, medical terminology, and data, reducing him to nothing more than another case, another set of points in the graph or final report, rather than an actual living, breathing person who'd passed out just hours before at the office. It was absolute bullshit.

None of the words mattered. None of the words were familiar, all of them long and sprawled on the page in the stereotypical doctor's handwriting. He didn't know what they meant, so they held little meaning to him. They all felt too foreign and yet, all of them gave off the sense of one thing: death. And so he kept reading, even if the diagnoses made no sense.

The words '6-8 months' were written at the bottom and circled in red, showing obvious importance, and confirming his daunting suspicions.

This paper made him inherently angry, And this—giving him this paper to explain whatever the fuck was going on rather than just giving him the news in terms he could understand—was the cause of some of that anger, but what really made him want to punch one of these hospital idiots was the fact that they hadn't even let him see Gavin. Instead, he'd been handed this paper without any explanation, as if this paper was supposed to represent him, summing him up to nothing more than this data. This was his _friend_ , not a set of numbers and meaningless jargon. He hadn't asked to see this. He'd asked to see Gavin.

No one paid much mind to him. A nurse who'd guided him this far waited, but no one else stared or held their breath for him, as if this was a common occurrence. He glanced around, fuming still, watching for a few slow-moving moments as people moved around him, going about their jobs, their visitations, their conversations, while it felt like the world around him had fallen to pieces. In just a few months— In just a few months, the friend he'd worked with for a couple years, someone he'd gotten close with, would be gone. That desk beside him would be empty. There'd be no more idiotic questions, no more bullshit made-up words. He'd just be—gone.

He knew that. But it wasn't registering. He just couldn't imagine it. It was too hard to visualize the office without Gavin's constant chidings and annoyances. His presence was necessary—he was important to the company. Other people were expandable and replaceable, but Gavin was someone who'd been working with them for years, even before he was hired to work at the Achievement Hunter office. He was the guy with the camera—the person who filmed anything and everything, the idiot who constantly goofed around and irritated people, the person who edited more videos than anyone else in the gaming office. His presence was a unique one and Michael couldn't imagine what it'd be like without him. It wasn't something he could think about right now, and it definitely wasn't something he could handle.

It felt unfair. It felt unfair that he, Michael Jones, was at a loss for words to express his anger or any other emotion. It felt unfair that he'd gotten so little time with him, so little time to get to know him. Right now, nothing at all felt fair. A few hours ago, everything had been alright—just fine. They'd been recording, editing, and going out to lunch, just like usual. Nothing had been out of the usual until Gavin suddenly started complaining of a bad headache ('A migraine?' Michael had asked. 'Never had one.' Gavin had answered), which was weird in itself since he was neither hungover nor drinking. Everything happened so quickly from there, so much so that it was almost hard to recall the events. He could remember watching Gavin take a hard fall onto the hard kitchen floor at the company and witnessing his best friend have a scary as hell seizure. From there, he couldn't remember much else. People flipped out, there was a lot of screaming and confusion, someone called the ambulance, Michael somehow got here, and now he was holding this paper, waiting to be allowed into Gavin's hospital room.

He wanted to tell someone to get this goddamned paper out of his face, but he couldn't find the words to speak. In silence, Michael could only nod at the nurse who'd been assigned to escort him to the room, glancing one last time at the paper in his hand, as if to see if the death sentence was still written there in red, before crumpling the damn thing up and throwing it into a nearby wastebasket.

…

Gavin was in the worst shape Michael had ever seen him—or really, anyone, for that matter. If there was one thing Michael could say about Gavin, it was that he was tired most of the time. This was taking it way beyond that. He looked like he hadn't fucking slept in _days_ , and Michael knew he hadn't looked like before the hospital. It was strange to witness the change of just a few hours on Gavin. He'd looked like his usual dumbass British self before and now—there were bags under his eyes, his face pale and drained of color, and a bandage on his head serving as a constant reminder of the fact that he was concussed. As expected, Geoff sat in a chair at the side of the hospital bed, his back turned to the doorway Michael had stopped in.

From the looks of it, Michael had walked in on a conversation. Gavin looked frustrated, and it wasn't that half-serious frustration he got in Let's Plays or when something was annoying him. This was real frustration, real anger. It was rare to see Gavin in that actual state—given how laid back he was and with his constant 'I can't be bothered' attitude about things—But it was obvious that that was what he'd just walked in on. There was something odd that set him off—maybe the atmosphere or how he could immediately tell that something had changed within Gavin. It was depressing and Michael felt both like he had to get the hell out of here to avoid the crushing pressure he felt when Gavin switched his fuming gaze towards him, mouth still slightly open as if he were about to yell or raise his voice and like he had to stay and comfort him.

He tried to speak, trying to find his voice for the first time since arriving. What was he supposed to say? Gavin wasn't really an idiot. He knew what was going on. He knew he was sick. Earlier in the day, things had been completely fine. Never in a million years would Michael have guessed that Gavin was sick. He hadn't looked like it, hadn't seemed like it. He'd been his totally normal, annoying self and now he was lying in a fucking hospital bed with whatever the hell that paper had said he had, angry and looking the poster child of illness.

"Gav—"

"Shut up," Michael had heard him hiss that more times than to count, but this was the first time Michael took him seriously and actually shut his goddamn mouth. Not that he'd planned anything out to say in the first place. "I'm sick of it."

He sounded how he looked—tired, and not even in the physical sense. Whatever Michael was going to say, it was clear that Gavin was already tired of hearing it, and when Gavin was tired or actually irritated at something, he made it perfectly obvious that he didn't even want to be reminded of it. Michael honestly felt bad for him. This anger and frustration that Michael felt in this situation—Gavin probably had that ten times worse. He was the one who was sick, the one who suddenly had a time limit on his life. Michael was just a standbyer, a witness.

"Look, I-I'm sorry, man," Michael didn't know what else to say. It was all he could think of. With Gavin, it was hard to tell what he wanted to hear. More often than not, Gavin really just didn't care, but it left Michael at a lost in times like these, when he wanted to say the right thing and had no idea _what_ to say.

"Shut _up_ , Michael," Gavin sounded even more annoyed at his attempt of offered condolence. "Geoff said he same thing. I'm tired of hearing that. 'I'm sorry' this and 'I'm sorry' that. It's _annoying_. I don't want any damn pity. I don't even want anyone to know, but it looks like they already bloody told you, didn't they?"

That paper. The paper that he'd been given as soon as he' requested to see Gavin. The paper that was supposed to represent his friend in a matter of statistics, numbers, and medical jargon that Michael didn't understand. The only thing that fucking piece of paper had told him was that Gavin had a death sentence that was some deadly illness. Which was to say, that paper had told him absolutely jack shit. He was standing in this goddamn doorway with no idea what was going on, with his boss and his best friend both staring at him, being fucking _told off_ for pitying (God, what an idiot. Pity wasn't going to help anyone. He shouldn't have said anything) Gavin, talking like he had any _right_ to feel sorry for someone who'd just found out he was dying. He should've known. Gavin wasn't the kind of person who demanded others feel bad for him. There was no way he wanted to know how someone felt sorry for him, especially when feeling sorry for him did nothing to help him.

Michael shrugged, "They gave me some bullshit medical chart and expected me to understand it. If you're up for it, I'd be thrilled if you could make some sense of it." Maybe Gavin could elaborate. The doctors had to have told him more. He was the patient. Maybe—maybe it wasn't as bad as it seemed. Gavin hadn't shown any symptoms or anything before today. Maybe it, whatever it was, could still be treated.

There was silence for a while. Gavin laid his head back on the hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling and then closing his eyes. Geoff sighed in the way he only did when he was tired (which was constantly) or stressed out and looked back at Gavin. Michael suddenly had the feeling he'd asked a loaded question. No, not probably. Without a doubt, he'd asked a loaded question. Sometimes, he just had to keep his mouth shut and not talk about shit. He was usually alright about knowing when to keep quiet, with this time being the rare exception.

The lingering silence left a horrible taste in Michael's mouth, and again, he felt as if he needed to get out of here. Not just out of this room, but out of this building, and far, far away. He was anxious, upset, and angered. He needed time, time alone and away from others, and a hospital full of sick, dying people and a sick, dying Gavin wasn't going to help that. The silence told him something horrible was coming, and he immediately knew that all his previous 'maybes' were wrong. It was as bad as it seemed, and if there was a way to treat Gavin, he wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed without any doctors in his room and he wouldn't have that goddamn note at the bottom of his chart. Michael wasn't stupid, and he wasn't oblivious, and he didn't try to make things better than they were, even if the fact that the guy he sat next to and hung out with frequently was _dying_ was hard to face, he wasn't going to ignore it. He knew that what was coming wasn't going to be good, and he thought he'd prepared himself by the time Gavin looked at him again, seemingly calmed down, but nothing could ever prepare him for the next words that came out of Gavin's mouth.

"Cancer. Brain cancer, Michael. I have brain cancer."

…

There wasn't much that actually mattered to Gavin.

He was someone who just _didn't care_. He didn't do useless things. He didn't waste money. He didn't go out of his way to do things he didn't care about. He'd worked his bloody ass off for years to get to where he was. Some people—fans, mostly—called him coldhearted, and while their opinion was one of the many things that Gavin couldn't really care less about, they were wrong. He wasn't coldhearted. He cared about people, he had family, he had friends, he'd be upset if someone he cared about was hurt—but he didn't attach. It wasn't that he consciously prevented himself from attaching, either. It just happened. He did care about people. There just weren't many people or things he was attached to, and stuff had to keep him interested, or he'd lose any want to be interested at all.

Not caring about things seemed to help him in life. He didn't have to suffer through boring conversation with boring people when he could just walk away without feeling bad. He didn't have to put himself through another night with a girl he didn't care for when he could just not call her back. He didn't feel much regret, since he didn't care in the first place or couldn't bother to. He didn't feel bad about this or that. But he wasn't coldhearted. He did have feelings, even though he kept himself in check most of the time and didn't express much other than enjoyment.

He just didn't think in a normal way. His mind seemed to have absolutely no limits. If he wasn't attached to someone, he didn't care if he hurt them, and the fact that he could do that so easily made him uneasy, especially when confronted about it. He didn't like being in his head—it was a truly terrifying place to be if he was left alone for too long. There were two things that people—fans, mostly—called him. Coldhearted and self-centered. He wasn't upset by it. He couldn't be bothered to take time out of his day to worry about what people thought of him. But he most definitely wasn't self-centered. If people paid attention, they'd know that he was twenty-five years old and couldn't even own a mirror or get dressed with the lights on. He didn't care about himself, to tell the absolute truth. He didn't matter to himself—not his health, not his image, and not the list of accomplishments he had under his name.

And maybe that was how he'd ended up here.

Here, in the hospital. Here, with a bloody IV sticking in his hand. Here, left alone with his thoughts. Here, constantly begging anyone who had a license to take him home. Here, where people constantly passed by him with looks of pity. Here, where Gavin had retched at the mere scent of sickness and death. Maybe it'd been the drinking. Maybe it'd been his refusal to see any doctor the past few years. Maybe it'd been just karma. For once, it mattered. It mattered and Gavin couldn't force it out of his head, like an itch he couldn't scratch.

A lot of things mattered now. More things than usual.

Numbers mattered. Time mattered. He mattered.

He had to get out of here. This was driving him mad. Everything was driving him mad. He was twenty-five for god's sake. He shouldn't be like this. He wanted to get out of here. He was sick of it, of everything. Geoff, before going back to the office to tell the other founders about what was going on, had been subjected to what had been at first (when he'd still had the energy to be angry) Gavin shouting and demanding to be taken home, which had eventually evolved into " _Please_ take me home. I can't stand it here." And more humiliating begging. He'd wanted out of here the moment he'd regained full consciousness.

It felt odd—not having full control. He wasn't allowed out of the hospital. For once, he had to stay put, and that wasn't exactly something that Gavin was keen on doing. That mattered. Not having control over his life suddenly mattered. He couldn't do what he wanted. His life was in the hands of whatever doctor he'd been stuck with. That was the person who held the control and Gavin couldn't _stand_ that. He wanted that control. He wanted his bloody life back.

He wasn't alone, though. It wasn't as bad as it would be if Gavin was left alone with his own thoughts.

It mattered that Michael had stayed. It mattered that someone was with him. Even if Gavin didn't want to matter, it still mattered that someone had stayed with him and prevented him from going completely mad. Even if Michael wasn't even talking (he'd been strangely quiet throughout this entire ordeal), it still mattered.

"It's late—" Gavin started his usual tirade for probably the tenth time in the last twenty minutes. It was really all he could say.

"—And you want to go home. I know, Gavin. I've heard that a million times by now," It was somehow calming that Michael had the same fake-annoyed tone as he did every other day. "As soon as we get your release papers, I'll take you home. Until then, you can sit your goddamn ass down and be a good kid for the nurses."

(Gavin didn't know why, but Michael cared.)

That reassured him that the only thing to do was nothing, since there was nothing _to do._ The anger was gone—he was tired and frustrated and too exhausted to shout anymore. He really just wanted to sleep, but he was too restless to do so. The hospital was too unfamiliar, and the scent, whenever it came wavering back to him, made him nearly throw up. The telly was flipped on, by Michael or Geoff—he couldn't remember which, and there was some American sport he didn't understand on, but the background noise was quiet, familiar, and most importantly, calming. He couldn't say the same for the rest of the disgustingly pristine hospital.

"Hey," Michael drew his attention now, looking at him again and drawing him out of his thoughts. "They said it should be soon. Don't look so annoyed at me."

"They'll want to talk," Gavin laid his head back, looking back up at the ceiling. He'd memorized the pattern and number of ceiling tiles hours ago. This was boring. He was ready to go home.

"The doctors?"

""Nah. Geoff and Griffon."

Because of the way he thought, because of the way he saw himself and everyone else, he rarely ever did the entire feelings discussion thing. It wasn't for him. It was completely incomprehensible why anyone else should be obligated to sit and listen to him talk about his thoughts and what it was like being in his head. Those two were big on it. There was no doubt that this would be the topic of some big talk when he got home. They were his family. He could honestly say he loved them. But he wasn't up for that. He was up for getting pissed drunk and not remembering a thing, but that probably wouldn't be happening, either. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't even want to think about it.

The crowd roared on the television. Gavin closed his eyes. Everything had gone to absolute _shit_ in a matter of a few hours. It was hysterical. Absolutely, maddeningly _hysterical_.

"You're going to have to eventually. You're the enigma Gavin Free. No one can ever tell what you're thinking," Unfortunately, that was the truth. He would have to have the dreaded conversation with Geoff and Griffon eventually. If he had anything to say about it, today would not be that day. "You're going to go insane if all you do is think and not talk. And you'll drive everyone else insane, too."

 _This_ was driving him insane. Silence fell between them again. Someone won the televised game. There was a quiet cheer from outside the hospital room. Gavin stopped counting the moments of silence and finally opened his eyes turning his head in Michael's direction again.

"Cancer sucks butt, doesn't it, Michael?"

"Yeah. It does. It sucks some pretty big butt."

…

The rain was probably the most calming thing that night. It was dark and stormy, and the lights of the city flashed by brighter than usual, as Michael drove through Austin. It was down pouring for the first time that month, and even with the pouring rain, the city was still alive. People ran on the sidewalks, using anything and anything to try to shield themselves from the rain. The rain and the chill made Gavin more alert—more on edge. But it was calming. It reminded him of his home country, with the rain and the (temporary) cold. It was background noise, something he could focus on.

The car ride had been mostly silent, with Gavin sat in the passenger's seat, his chin in his hand as he leaned on the door, eyes focused on the scene outside. The drive was slow, and whether it was because Michael had noticed his fascination with what was outside or because of the city traffic, he didn't care. It gave him an odd feeling; he felt calm, but on edge, self-aware. It was as if he was suddenly 'here' rather than somewhere else. He was hyper-alert and hyper-aware, jumpy and jittery. He couldn't sit still in his seat. He felt like he had the night when Geoff and Griffon had dared him to go running in the thunderstorm all those years ago, when he'd first came to Austin. It was pure adrenaline.

Brain cancer.

It finally hit him.

He had brain cancer. He was sick. He was going to die. He had a tumor in his head and it was going to spread and eventually kill him. In a few months—eight at the most—he wouldn't be here. There'd be nothing. He'd be gone. Cancer. He had cancer. He was sick. Death hadn't really been a thought Gavin had ever had. He had never thought about dying this early on. He was twenty five. This shouldn't be happening to him. Cancer was something that happened to other people. People on TV, people in books, people that weren't him. Not him. He'd never really addressed it as something real. He'd never considered it a possibility. Never in his life had he imagined himself in the hospital after a seizure, finding out from a doctor that he had _cancer_ and would die within the year. It just hadn't—hadn't been something he'd ever thought would happen. Things like this happened to other people. Not him.

Things were suddenly different. He'd looked like a normal foreigner just earlier. Now, he was obsessed with the way doctors and nurses and visitors had looked at him—at how his simple appearance incited pity in them. He didn't want to look at anyone. He looked sick, he was sure, not that he could look at himself in the mirror. People looked at him in a way he'd never wanted. Pity. They felt for him. He was tired of that. Feeling sorry for him was useless, and Gavin hated that it was _he_ they pitied just because he was _sick_. People looked at him different. They saw him as a different person completely. In just a few hours, people had changed the way they thought and felt about him. Even Michael was acting differently, with his odd silence. He couldn't _stand_ this. He wanted to provoke something, to make Michael yell at him or joke around like he usually did. Things felt entirely too serious without any talk.

But Gavin didn't want to talk. He just wanted to sit and watch the outside fly by. He wanted to watch people move on in the world without him. He wanted to observe as much of it as possible. He wouldn't be here in a few months to see it.

That was an odd feeling, and it wouldn't leave. In a few months, he just wasn't going to be here. He would die a painful death whenever the cancer decided to take him, and then people would move on. Eventually, everyone would move on. The company would go on without him. He'd be forgotten about as soon as new talent came around. He'd worked his ass off to get where he was. It had been indescribably difficult to get a visa to come here. He'd spent years getting close to Rooster Teeth's members, and for—what? Just to work at his dream job for two years and then be forced to give it up? It wasn't fair, and that _mattered_. Even if he thought badly of himself more often than not, he still felt like he deserved _more_.

The worst part was that he was going to be forgotten. He was old enough that he'd seen it happen. An actor died and everyone was sad for a while and all that, and then they were forgotten about. Anyone who produced anything on the internet knew that the key to keeping and gaining viewers was new content. Gavin had built a name for himself. The same would happen to him—he'd eventually be forgotten about by both his coworkers and the fanbase. The thought of that—of not being remembered, of not leaving something memorable behind—was even scarier than the thought of dying itself. Because Gavin wasn't a person who did useless, boring things, and if his life ended up not mattering—what was the point?

"You can use my phone to call home or something. If you want." Michael sounded as if he were forcing himself to talk. The silence was comfortable, even preferred, for Gavin, but it was clear Michael was uncomfortable with it. For the first time since they'd gotten out of the hospital parking-lot, Gavin looked away from the water streaked window and flashing by neon lights and towards his friend.

"Nah. I'll say something to Geoff when I get home. 'Ll be fine."

Michael's expression was unreadable, but Gavin's response seemed to just frustrate him. He didn't meet his gaze, keeping his eyes on the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. "That's not what I meant, you dense idiot. Home. Your family."

Oh. He'd forgotten—he honestly hadn't given that a thought. It wasn't that he didn't care. It was just so easy to push his life in England out of his thoughts. Even though he spent his entire childhood here, Austin, living with Geoff and Griffon, felt more like home. He didn't talk to his family all that much. Gavin hadn't even considered talking to them about this yet, but he immediately knew something for certain—he wasn't going to tell them yet and wouldn't for a _bloody_ long time. Word spread fast at the company. This would spread like a wildfire. Gavin had no control over that. He wouldn't be able to stop it. This, however, he did have control over. Gavin was an adult by legal standards. Neither he nor any doctors were obligated to tell his family anything. He had control over this, and that mattered to him.

"'s four in the morning over there," Gavin reasoned with him. He didn't want to tell them. He didn't want to hear their reactions or see their faces or anything, really. They'd be fine with not knowing. For now, at least. He at least had control over that aspect of his life. What they didn't know wouldn't kill them—even if it killed him.

Michael spared him a side-glance, the first time he'd taken his eyes off the road, "What about Dan?"

Gavin didn't know what Michael was trying to get him to do. Was he trying for a response from him? That was usually his job, to be the mincy little prick who irritated everyone just to get a reaction out of them. He'd already told Michael he didn't want to talk. Surely it wasn't so hard to understand that he just wanted to go home and sleep after being diagnosed with _cancer._ Whatever he wanted, Gavin was giving it to him. He could feel the frustration continuously growing and he knew that he'd be hearing these questions probably twenty more times before he would finally get to sleep. 'You should call them', 'you have to say something' He could hear it now and he was already _sick_ of it.

So there it was. A reaction. An emotion. Something other than his show of boredom and sulking. There it was, anger, a thousand times more intense than before. He should congratulate Michael for being able to draw some _actual fucking emotion_ out of him.

"Bloody hell, Michael, _why_ would I want to bother him with this?" It was odd to hear his own voice rose above his normal tone. It was almost foreign to him. Anger wasn't something Gavin usually expressed. If anything came close to it, he was just annoyed. Not angry. Not like this. He usually didn't bother with getting angry. It was too much of a hassle and he didn't want to waste his energy on it when he could usually just walk away or ignore it. This was different, though. This wasn't just anger at this situation, but all of the pent up frustration from today's events coming out. He was angry at the doctors for not letting him go home when he wanted to. He was angry at Geoff for not taking him home from the hospital when he'd begged to go. He was angry at Michael for all these damn questions. And he was angry at himself for getting cancer, and because in a few months, he wouldn't be remembered.

"Because he's your friend!" The car swerved violently. Michael's voice reached louder than his and Gavin expected no different. "You haven't said fucking two words to me since we got out of the damn hospital, Gavin! What the fuck are you doing? Trying to ignore the big white fucking elephant in the room?! It's not working. We both know it's there, so learn to use your goddamn words and _talk_."

The car screeched to a halt and Gavin couldn't remember a time he'd ever seen Michael's face redder or his voice angrier. That was fine. Everything was absolutely _top_. Completely. Wonderful. He wanted out of here. It was the same feeling he'd had in the hospital. It was an itch to get out of this damn car and away from people. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to hear this. Talking didn't matter. What mattered was being remembered. Everything else felt useless and unnecessary and Gavin didn't want to be bothered by it.

"I'm getting out," He already had the door open and was halfway out by the time Michael grabbed his arm, reaching over the car and grabbing Gavin in a crushing grip. "Let me go. I'm going home." Gavin had stopped yelling, the air from the outside cold on his skin, making him shiver. Rain fell on him, drenching him in a matter of seconds, leaving him dripping wet, angry, and still fighting Michael. He pulled, trying to yank his arm from Michael's grip, hissing at the pain his tight hold was causing him. He wanted to go home. He wanted to get out of here. It was driving him insane to be angry and confined in a small space with another angry person.

"Sit your goddamn ass down," At least Gavin had the decency not to yell when others could hear him. Michael, on the other hand, did not. One thing about Michael was that Rage Quit actually made his yelling seem quieter than it actually was. "I'm not letting you run away like a shitty little kid. Do you really think you can walk from here? I bet you have no fucking idea where you even are. You'd sooner get jumped than get home." He pulled and Gavin pulled back, stubborn and refusing to go along with what he wanted, thought ultimately losing and being shoved back into his seat with the door slamming closed behind him.

He stayed put, wet and breathing hard, furious. Water dripped down is face, falling down from his hair and into his eyes, making it hard for him to see. His clothes clung to his body in the most uncomfortable way, the fabric cold with the freezing water. He shook in his seat, slouching over and knotting his hands in his hair, his head down. He stared at the floor, wide-eyed and trembling, gasping for air. It was cold and his heart racing, thundering in his ears. Everything was spinning out of his control and he was trapped in this goddamn car and couldn't get out. He was losing it here. He couldn't calm down. His heart was racing too much, his breathing too fast, and his thoughts too persistent and circular. He was going to die. He had cancer. He was going to die.

"Gavin, hey—" He wasn't yelling anymore. "Hey. Calm down. Goddammit, _talk_ to me."

He couldn't. He couldn't even begin to form what he was thinking into thoughts. He was going to die. This was happening to _him_. Cancer was no longer something that just happened to other people. This was happening to him, Gavin, not some TV personality or a celebrity. Him. It was all surreal to think that he had cancer. It didn't feel real. He said nothing, trying to calm himself down. This was happening. There was nothing he could do about that. For some reason, _that_ was the thing that bothered him the most. This lack of control wasn't something he'd ever experienced. He'd always had control over his life and now—that'd all been taken away from him in a matter of hours.

"Do I need to drive you back to the hospital?" Michael's voice was rising again, but not in anger this time. Gavin only shook his head; that was probably the last place he wanted to go. This was insane—whatever was going on.

"Don't—no. I'll be—alright," At least he'd gotten something out. His breathing ad heart-rate was starting to slow down after what seemed like forever. Still shaking, he reached for the towel in the backseat, burying his face in it to dry himself off and then running it through his hair, collecting the rain water and making himself at least feel a little better.

It took a few more minutes of riding in silence before he realized he'd been acting like a child, panicked and yelling. Michael was right about that much at least. He didn't want to talk—not to Michael, not to Geoff, not to his family, not to _anyone_ , but something told him he wasn't going to be let out of this car until he did. So he talked, saying the only thing he could, looking straight ahead at the rest of the people out in the pouring rain at ten at night, "I'm mad."

"Yeah. I know. We just had a shouting match. You're angry," Michael had considerably calmed down, as well, though he'd still missed the entire point.

"No, mad like insane, crazy."

"Why's that?" There was no hesitation, no moment to think about what Gavin had said.

"Actors, Michael."

"What?" Michael glanced at him, his face looking about as confused as his voice sounded.

Gavin was only vaguely aware of how disjointed his speech was, "Actors die. People forget about them after a while, don't they? 's all sad for a while. Then people move on. Pretty soon, no one remembers."

 _Now_ there was a moment of quiet between them, and then Michael looked his way for a few seconds, " _That's_ what you're worried about? You're scared that no one's gonna remember you after a few months?"

"Scared!" Gavin repeated, more than a little shocked at his word choice. Fear wasn't something familiar to him. Not real fear, at least. He worried, but he wasn't really _scared_ of very much. "It doesn't—"

"You're going to tell me that the thought of dying soon doesn't scare you?"

Gavin had nothing to say to that.

Absolutely nothing.

Because that _did_ scare him. It scared him a lot, thinking about how the world would move on and how his life would eventually be reduced to a point on a timeline, a mention in the history of Rooster Teeth, and a set of data. It _did_ scare him to think about dying in absolute pain, experiencing it a hundred times worse than what he'd felt today. It _did_ scare him to think about leaving behind so little, about not mattering in a year or so come. It _did_ scare him to think about telling his family and friends and what they'd say. Cancer scared him. Dying scared him. Pain scared him. He didn't _want_ to die or be in pain. He had nothing to say to Michael because he _was_ afraid.

He was scared. He was terrified. He was going to die. And that mattered.

(END OF PART ONE)


End file.
